The Last Blog Entry : By John Watson
by Angel Shinigami
Summary: Sherlock is gone and John can't move on. He writes a last blog entry to end his blogging carrer. SPOILERS! If you are new to the fandom and do not know how this series or the books...or the movies ends, pleased be warned. Sherlock and Watson slash...ish. ANGST! At least I think so...


Title: The Last Blog Entry : By John Watson

Author: Angelshingami

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Warnings: Main Character Death, Angst, Slash…in a way

Disclaimer: I do not own any character from the show Sherlock and am making no money from this fic. I do this for love and for no other reason.

AN: I got this idea in the shower, I swear to god, and while it didn't end here like it did while I was rinsing my hair, I think it turned out pretty good. I hope you like it! Please Read and Review!

8:17am. , July 14th

It's been a year since my last blog entry and for me, it's as if time itself has stood still. I wake up every morning and stare at my grey-ish white ceiling before convincing myself that today will be the day that my life returns to normal…that I won't feel hollow.

I dress, stare into my kitchen as if deciding whether it's worth the effort to cook before settling on a cold cup of day old coffee that I can't ever remember brewing, but always seems to be there when I wake up, and sit down at my desk to stare at a blank page with one small blinking line.

Blink….

Blink….

Blink…

It's never ending and it speaks to me. It's as if my life is summed up by this one blinking line on an empty page, constantly waiting for someone to breathe life into it and tap a few keys, to give it orders, to tell it what to do.

But after a few hours, even I cannot take that much truth and so I get my cane and I take a walk. The limp in my leg was once all in my mind and may still be just in my mind, but without the cane, I can't make it out the door. It's as if this small piece of wood is all that's holding me up against the painfully grey world that waits me beyond my threshold.

I never have a set place in mind when I start walking, but it never seems to matter. I always end up in the same place no matter which way I turn to leave my block. I stare at the sidewalk. I take in the impact marks and in my mind I can still see the red that dyed the all consuming grey that day, though it has long been washed away by cleanup crews and mother nature herself.

I still see him…laying there, his beautiful curls matted and dripping, his skin so white it was as if he were a mystic creature rather than the man I knew him to be… When I first started showing up in front of the hospital people would constantly ask me if I needed anything, if they could do anything for me, to which I said nothing. After time they stopped asking and I prefer it that way. The silence, while not soothing, suits me and allows me to remember the better times, though they are little comfort.

I'll stay next to that spot for hours, regretting everything I didn't say, wishing I'd done more, knowing there was nothing more I could've done, and hating myself for it.

Sherlock was a force of nature and had his reasons for everything he did. Even if us mere mortals didn't know what those reasons were as he often spoke in vague half sentences and or fully formed thoughts that only ever made scene to him at the time and became clear in hindsight.

I leave the hospital and catch a taxi back to my flat so I can watch the world move past while I stay in place, metaphorically if nothing else.

That is only a typical day. Some days I do laundry at the corner mat or wonder down the grocery isles when the grey box I have all but sealed myself in gets to be too much. Those are the days I hate the most. The days when I feel eyes on me, where I'll catch a familiar coat out of the corner of my eye and my heart will stutter or speed up and for a brief moment I can't contain the excitement or longing the blossoms in my chest! However, when I turn to see him completely, he is never there and I am left with the over whelming urge to be sick and sit down all at once.

I never visit his grave anymore. It's a stark and constant reminder that the one person that truly was god's gift to mankind, the one person that could be so utterly still for so long, then burst into motion so quick…, the one person that saw life and really lived it, that didn't just drift through it, or exist in it, the one and only person that made me feel….anything…, is gone.

I used to go and ask for him to perform a miracle, then I begged for it, then I screamed and raved for it, then…I got angry. I said nasty things that only I could hear, I wept and spilled the darkest secrets of my heart, and then I just couldn't do it every other day. It took to much out of me.

If you have read this far, I must offer an apology. There will be no life changing affirmation or declaration from me saying that this has lifted a weight from my shoulders and I can now go and face the world tomorrow with an unburdened heart.

The simple fact is every night I close my eyes and beg for this to be the last night I have to do so. I hate waking up to see my ceiling. … I ask any deity that will listen to let my soul be with its match and allow this shell to die, but I keep opening my eyes.

I have come to the conclusion that I am in hell. That there will be no peaceful ending for me and when I am finally allowed to die, it will not be piercing blue eyes that I see, but a never ending stream of grey ceilings.

So I will keep waking up. I will keep getting dressed. And while I won't be writing this blog any longer, I will still sit down at my desk and stare at a blank page with one single blinking line at the upper left hand corner.


End file.
